Lumi’s poetry
Scraps and Scars
The girl who sat all alone at lunch-
I sat with her,
everyday,
and talked to her,
and I was her friend,
until she found her own group
and she didn’t need me anymore.
The girl who had notes written to her-
calling her fat,
and ugly, and worthless;
I left her notes of my own,
telling her the truth:
that she was not fat,
she was beautiful,
and I stayed
to watch her read my notes.
And I watched the smile
spread across her face-
something I hadn’t seen
In a long, long time.
The boy who wore long sleeves
whether it was the cold winds of winter
or the blistering heat of summer-
I asked him how he was doing
every day,
and told him I would always be there for him.
And I watched his scars slowly fade over time,
and until the scars on his heart
were there no longer.
The boy who stayed quiet
and never spoke to anyone-
I talked to
and I listened to
everything he had been keeping inside-
too afraid to say.
His life at home,
the friends who had left him,
his struggles with school
and whenever he needed a place to vent
I would always
be there.
The girl who wrote poems
on loose scraps of paper
who loved writing
but never thought she’d amount to anything-
I collected the scraps
that she threw into the trash
and I read them
and told her
they were better than half of the ones
I had to read for English class.
But when the day came
that I had no one to sit with at lunch
I asked the girl I had once sat with
if I could eat with her
for the day,
and she stared at me
as if she had never known me at all.
And she said
No.
Find another place.
And when I got a note from a stranger
that said mean things about me,
I showed it to the girl
who I had once written uplifting notes to
and she just
shrugged,
and said that the words
were kind of true,
anyway.
And when I had scars of my own
on my heart-
the boy
whose scars I had once healed
looked at me
and laughed,
saying
I can’t even see them.
How can they hurt?
Because he had forgotten
how much more the scars on his heart
had hurt
compared to the ones on his wrists.
When I started becoming quiet,
stopped volunteering in class,
stopped talking to my friends,
and stopped smiling
at strangers
in the hallways
the boy who had once been quiet
continued laughing,
and grinning,
and joking
and when we passed by,
he looked straight through me,
like no one was there.
And when I tried to tell him about my problems
he looked awkward
and he couldn’t listen,
so he left.
And in English class,
when I was singing quietly to myself-
the girl
who had once written poems on scraps of paper
overheard me
and told me
that I sounded terrible,
that silence was golden,
and that if I wanted singing to take me anywhere,
I would need a miracle.
Sometimes
we expect more from people
simply because
we’d be willing
to do that much
for them.
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